


Bedside Manner

by stone_in_focus



Series: This Ain't Your Brokeback Crap [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Western, Cowboy Dean, Doctor Castiel, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, POV Castiel, POV Third Person, Romance, Sheriff Dean, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:57:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1391920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stone_in_focus/pseuds/stone_in_focus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The local sheriff has a knack for getting shot. Dr. Novak finally discovers why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedside Manner

**Author's Note:**

> I guess this is technically my first Destiel AU? Someone wanted cowboy fic about cowboys who aren't sad about being gay, so this happened. May end up writing a few more random drabbles, depending on where the wind takes me.

“ _Sonuva_ _!_ ”

The doctor frowns at the sudden thump of fist against his table, steadying the surgical tongs in his hand. While he assures his patient this isn’t the first time he’s encountered such a predicament, nor is it the most unusual, extricating a bullet from a man’s buttocks isn’t how Dr. Castiel Novak envisioned spending his afternoon. “Sheriff, you really  _must_  stay still.”

However, the words may as well have fallen on deaf ears, for Castiel strongly suspects that Sheriff Winchester has never stayed still for more than a New York minute in his life. His rapidly shortening life, if today’s calamity is anything to go by. At half past noon, the deputy (and the sheriff’s only kin) had come barging in with his posse, markedly less than sober and guffawing up a storm. The doctor hadn’t even opened his mouth to ask what all the ruckus was for before the sheriff dropped his pants and bent over.

But knowing Winchester, Castiel wagers he’ll put up with being a laughingstock only until someone’s unlucky enough to find him in an unfavorable manner and give him reason to remind everyone why he’s in charge of this piss poor excuse for a town. The man’s reckless, but even outsiders know that those who underestimate him end up being animal fodder when they cross the wrong side of the law.

For now, Winchester seems content to drown his humiliation in the cheap swill he’s taken the liberty of retrieving from the medicine cabinet. “Don’t suppose you have any kinda mind in stockin’ up on something with a little more kick any time soon, Doc? Just ‘cause I done put out the fire, that don’t mean the one in my gut’s gotta die out.”

"I heal people, Sheriff. I don’t lend to their vices." There’s a grunt of amusement from the lawman before the doctor adds, "I believe the fine establishment across the way is better suited for your needs."

The man twists his head back, the corner of his lips cracking a sly smile. “Surely no harm in reaching for the top shelf once in a while, least for your loyal patrons.”

"Loyal?" Castiel cocks an eyebrow, readjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles. "Or chronically suicidal?"

"Aw." The sheriff waves him off. "Me’n Samuel were having some fun with Crowley down in Ridgewater Creek, is all. Played a bit of Pin the Tail on the Jackass after we caught his boys rustlin’ cattle. Had ourselves a grand ol’ time."

"That explains the wounds."

"Yeah, well. Shoulda seen Crowley. I near shot those berries clean off his shriveled up twig."

"I’d rather  _not_  contemplate it; thank you.”

Winchester hisses through his teeth after he helps himself to another swig, and Castiel has to hold him down as he gingerly plucks out the lodged piece of lead, tossing it into the nearest tin pan. It’s utter nonsense, of course, but he briefly entertains the notion that perhaps the sheriff was born, quite literally, with a magnetic quality of some fashion. The sheer number of bullets he’s had to remove for this man alone could add up to a collection worth displaying in a museum.

Odd, seeing as he’s never witnessed a quicker draw than Winchester himself, putting one right between the eyes before the other unfortunate soul could finish twirling his gun.

"Mighty kind of you, Doc," he says once he’s adequately bandaged, wincing slightly as he buttons up his pants. Ordinarily, this is the part where Castiel sends him off with the usual warning about looking for unnecessary trouble, but he knows better now than to waste his breath.

Instead, he sighs, rinsing his bloodied fingers in a pail of cold water. “At his point, I’m not sure if it’s kindness or pity.”

The words are muttered before he can stop himself, and although the sheriff snorts out a laugh, the bite in his lip and the paw at the back of his neck doesn’t go unnoticed. It is, after all, a doctor’s duty to tend to those with medical needs, the cause of those needs notwithstanding. And while there’s a fence back at the homestead that sorely demands repair after last week’s dust storm, it’s certainly not fair for Castiel to take out the frustration of his thwarted plans on the man.

An uncomfortable attempt at an apology is made, and Winchester grabs his hat, glancing down as he smooths a thumb along a ridge. “You, uh, know anything about that? Fence mendin’, I mean. That’s a big job for just one person, ain’t it? Seems like you might need a hand.”

The doctor furrows his brow, assuming it to be Winchester’s attempt at repartee. Well-deserved, he supposes, but just because he’s from back east doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to put a few slabs of wood together. “Yes, well, had I the extra funds, I would have hired someone, but…what is so amusing?”

The sheriff’s chuckling now, but there’s none of the edge that’s usually present when he’s bluffing at poker or dealing with a miscreant who doesn’t appreciate the way he stares him down. It’s a little bewildering, to be perfectly honest. “Are all you book-types like this? Got all that fancy learning soppin’ up your brain that you don’t got room t’notice what’s right under your nose? I’m offering you my help, Doc.”

Castiel tilts his head. “Would that not be unwise? Whatever happened today, I doubt Crowley will simply forget about it.”

"I’ll tell Samuel to keep the rascals in line. Any kinda real trouble come around, he’ll know where to find us."

"It’s…it’s very generous of you, but I couldn’t possibly repay you."

There’s a purse in his lips as he seems to give it some thoughtful consideration. “How about you cook us up some of your famous grits and cornbread, and I’ll consider us square.” He lightly dusts off his hat before returning it to its rightful place, winking as he pulls on the brim. “I hear you make a mean apple pie, too.”   

"I…" Castiel twists his hands, unsure what to make of this sudden… _warmth;_  this feeling opening something up in his chest. And unlike his patient, he doesn’t have the luxury of blaming it on the liquor. “Yes,” he clears his throat, “that would be amenable, Sheriff.”

"Call me Dean." The doctor raises his eyebrows, to which the lawman shrugs his shoulders. "I reckon my sorry ass comes crawlin’ in here often enough, that makes us some kinda bosom buddies."

Dean?

Castiel’s never heard anyone but his deputy brother refer to him that way. It’s either Sheriff or Winchester (or a combination of the two) to everyone else. It’s not that he hadn’t known his first name, of course. The paperwork he’s had to fill out every time the man’s in dire need of stitches, despite insisting that it’s “only a graze.”

 _It’s always a damn graze,_  Castiel nearly mumbles to himself. That is, until he catches a light in the sheriff’s eyes he doesn’t remember seeing before. And not from the glare of the whiskey, either.

Oh.

_Oh._

"I, um…" Castiel pats down his waistcoat as if he thinks he’ll find the right words in his pockets, averting the other man’s gaze but wanting to search for something more all the same. "I pray you’re not getting shot on my account."

It’s truly a sight to behold when the sheriff blushes. When  _Dean_  blushes.

There’s a tip of the hat before he turns tail. “See ya ‘round, Doc.”

"Cas. It’s…" He rushes out the door just in time to hear the lawman whoop and holler at his horse, a plume of dust rising as the name falls from his lips. "Castiel."

Once back in his office, Castiel sniffs at the remainder of whiskey and, after considering that Dean may be right about needing to acquire something more robust, gulps it all down.


End file.
